


long-term complications

by braigwen_s



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Autistic Havelock Vetinari, Canon Disabled Character, Chronic Pain, Disability, Everybody In This Household Is Neurodivergent, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Panic Attacks, Support, implied/referenced eating disorder, mobility impairment, not to me not if it's you, platonic intimacy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:20:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26995075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braigwen_s/pseuds/braigwen_s
Summary: The "it's okay to be loved, and it's okay to be looked after" Vetinari fic.  When you've tricked a city into helping itself up, you shouldn't be too surprised that they can reach some of the plates and keep them in motion for you.  When you've let somebody see a bit of you, it's hard to fully block them back out.  When you're many people's angel, maybe you do get more than one.
Relationships: Background Sybil Ramkin/Samuel Vimes, Carrot Ironfoundersson & Havelock Vetinari, Havelock Vetinari & Samuel Vimes, Moist von Lipwig & Havelock Vetinari, Rufus Drumknott & Havelock Vetinari, Sybil Ramkin & Havelock Vetinari
Comments: 30
Kudos: 57





	1. Rufus I. (Noticing & Articulating)

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of thoughts about Havelock Vetinari, and his physical status and health is a broad aspect of this.
> 
> With kind thanks to @dats_der_bunny for listening to me ramble thoughts about this, and for rambling with me. 
> 
> This work has no particular plot, all chapters work as standalones. This work will never be 'complete,' but it will always be readable as such. In future, I may end up marking it as 'complete,' but don't let that fool you - there will always be new chapters. I will also consistently be editing and re-editing previous chapters.
> 
> I'd disclaim I'm disabled, but writing about disability well seems to be a giveaway.

The door to the Oblong Office opened, and Rufus looked up as His Lordship stood in the doorway. He looked, Rufus noted, somewhat unsteady on his feet. Indeed, his free hand curled itself briefly around the doorway. Rufus put down his pencil. “Is your leg causing you much pain, my lord?” he asked.

“Hm?” said His Lordship, “no. My leg is at about its average amount of pain.”

Rufus frowned, ever-so-slightly, one hand shifting to be within easy reach of certain files, and an alarm. “Are you currently poisoned or injured, sir?”

His Lordship waved the fingers of the hand not on his cane in dismissal. “I do not believe so, although I may be, I suppose. No, my leg is fine, I am not hurt. I am, however, somewhat dizzy, and finding it hard to breathe.”

“Sir!” The word burst out of Rufus; he had slowly risen to his feet as His Lordship had been speaking, and now he dashed over to him. His Lordship raised an eyebrow, but allowed Rufus to take his arm and look over him worriedly. “Sir,” he said again, and then had to pause to work out how to keep speaking, “are you ill? What can I do to help you?”

“Yes, Rufus,” said His Lordship, which wasn’t good, oh no, if His Lordship called him by his first name this would be a Serious Conversation and His Lordship would Tell Him Things He Strictly Did Not Need To Know, Professionally. This meant a situation of some kind was at or near to crisis point. “I am ill." The way he repeated Rufus' word felt like it wasn't strictly an accurate assessment, but that he was latching onto it as something that would suffice until later notice. "I am not planning to die any time soon, so you needn’t look so much like a kicked swamp dragon… as you are clearly well aware, I have been poisoned and injured on…. many times.” The preposition was left hanging, and Rufus was pretty sure he noticed its neck snap. 

He stepped in, gently, as was his role. Panic settled when there was a task for him to do, and he had worked out what His Lordship meant. “You have been poisoned and injured many times, and have worked extremeley hard for many years, this has led to long-term complications on your physical health, which I am only now noticing?”

His Lordship blinked at him. “Mister Drumknott,” he said to him, “when did I last give you a raise?”

Rufus felt his face heat up. He had three meals a day provided, if he wished to partake of them, and a bedroom in the Palace. He barely needed money as it was, other than to purchase stationary and quietly put aside for the inevitable... inevitability... that his services were No Longer Required. He didn't like to think bout it much, but every so often his mind unhelpfully reminded him the record for the longest-surviving Patrician was broken anew every morning when His Lordship went to his desk. “The first Octeday of last year, sir.”

His Lordship looked up and to the side, considering. “Hm. Put yourself down for another one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "kicked dragon" line is because Havelock would never make casual idiomatic references to harming a puppy.


	2. Vimes I. (Noticing & Inquiring)

Vimes had been trying his best to stare at the wall all meeting, like he usually did, but it was getting difficult. This was because his peripheral vison was telling him that Vetinari didn’t look – well, not that he ever looked normal, but not quite normal for him. “…Sir?”

Vetinari looked at him patiently, even putting his quill pen down, and replied “Yes, Your Grace?” 

Vimes risked a glance over at him, and then instantly wished that he hadn’t. Pale bastard that he was, his skin could always be called ‘white,’ but today it was decidedly too white, less like milk and more like limestone. (Hastily, he told himself off for fanciful comparisons). He hadn’t been as quick on the verbal jabs as usual, either, and Vimes had noticed the newspaper on the side of his desk, while turned to crossword page, was not filled in. Also, once or twice he had heard him breathing, which was normal for most people, but the Patrician had a habit of being disgustingly quiet when not speaking. “Are you… alright?” he asked, then hurried to cover himself. “Only, you don’t look too good, and if you collapse on me or something that’d be a lot of paperwork.” The excuse was piss-poor, and he knew it, but at least he hadn’t said out loud he was _concerned_ , like a bloody mother hen.

Vetinari delicately tilted one eyebrow, like a lady tilted her fan. “I assure you, Your Grace, I shall not collapse on you.”

Vimes was a career cop. “You didn’t answer my question.” Another thing he hadn't done was say he wouldn't collapse - all he'd said was that it wouldn't be on Vimes.

“I’m sure I answered the root cause,” said Vetinari.

“Sir,” said Vimes.

“Commander,” said Vetinari.

“Are you alright?” asked Vimes. There, he had asked the question without the attached excuse, Vetinari would answer now. He’d said it like the man wanted him to. Vimes was sure he could hear the implied _that’s it, there’s a good dog_. He resisted the urge to growl, and just listened. Vetinari sighed before he spoke, and pressed against the bridge of his nose with a bone-thick knuckle. Bone-thick not as in it was thick like a bone was, but bone-thick as in it wasn’t any thicker than the bone, there was just sort of skin on top. 

“I like this phrase no better than you, Vimes, but it appears I may have something of a … ‘new normal’.”

Vimes didn’t like the sound of that. “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said. “What does it mean?”

“My dear Vimes,” replied Vetinari, “you like the sound of very little.” That wasn’t an answer, but he had also called him ‘Vimes’ instead of an infuriating title twice in a row, so he couldn’t be too fed up with it just yet. Also, there was maybe just a little fondness in the man's tone. “I am sure you understand how aging works; as it happens, I do it too. I do assure you, this has not been interfering with the welfare of the City, and nor shall it (at least in the foreseeable future).”

Vimes hated those brackets the man put in, and he hated the fact he could work out when the man used brackets in verbal speech. He folded his arms. “Have you seen Mossy about it?”

Vetinari, with, once again, great patience, replied. “I have a DMAP, Vimes.”

Vimes had no idea what that thing was, and said so. “Deemap?”

“Doctorate of Medicine and Applied Pathology," explained Vetinari. "I did do some post-graduate study.”

Vetinari was his own doctor. Vimes sort of wished he was surprised, because then either he wouldn’t know Vetinari so well or Vetinari would be just a little less insufferable, and either of those would be nice. “Right, because a bloody doctorate is ‘some post-graduate study’.”

“Three ‘bloody doctorates,’ actually,” said Vetinari.

Of bloody course he did. “Of bloody course you do. Let me guess, to go with your three Masters degrees?”

“As a matter of fact…”

He had three Masters’ degrees as well? What a – what a _nerd_. “What the bloody hell is _wrong_ with you?” he demanded, realizing what he'd just said as soon as the words left his mouth. He waited, defeated, for Vetinari to pounce.

“Ah," said Vetinari, "now we come back to it.”

Vimes sighed, this time, and tried to dismiss the odd twisting in his stomach as anything other than concern or fear or, all the gods forbid it, empathy. “Go on, then,” he said, and in his effort to stop it sounding demanding it somehow came out as gentle. Vetinari looked at him for a minute, and then did so.


	3. Sybil I. (Not Noticing & Inquiring)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil welcomes her old friend in for tea.

Sybil Vimes-Ramkin, the Lady Ramkin, opened the front door to her house, wearing a wig, a dress, only slightly muddy gumboots, and a genuine, beaming smile.

She was aware of what Sam had told her, that he had told him it was harder to walk, that his body was breaking down, but a brief and obvious once-over yielded no changes she could notice, and, well, Sam was a lovely and intelligent man, but… Havelock Vetinari had not been a healthy man for many of the over forty years she'd known him. She doubted the news had surprised her as much as it had surprised Sam. He had always thought the world of Havelock, even if he didn’t realise that, and things like that blurred one’s perception now and then. “Havelock!” she said, standing aside to let him in, “it’s so lovely to see you!”

Havelock did not respond in kind to her greeting and smile, but she didn’t expect him to. As he stepped into the house, and she closed the door behind him, something a little less hard shimmered in his eyes, and that was all of the warmth she ever needed from him.

As was their routine, she led him through the house to the little parlour room she had set up with tea, cake and biscuits, politely commanded him to take a seat, and then sat down herself across the small, round table. He poured himself some tea, with little milk and no sugar, after pouring her a cup as well. A generous splash of milk went into hers, just as she liked it. He hummed, and brought the cup up to his lips. “I haven’t poisoned it, dear,” she said gently. Sometimes Havelock needed a little reminder. He hummed again, this time shorter and lower-pitched, and took an actual sip before placing the cup back down. “That’s it,” she said.

A possibility occurred to Sybil. Perhaps he had not absently-mindedly forgotten food and drink she served him would be safe, and instead he was feeling too ill, or was in too much pain, to eat or drink. She decided the best course of inquiry was her usual direct – but not harsh, never harsh – way. “Havelock,” she asked, “are you okay?”

He closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. He really did look the same as ever, all tall and slim and pointy at the edges. When they were children, and had first met, he had actually scared her. She had always been big and strong, and she had been frightened to play with him too much, or shake his hand, in case she snapped him in half. But, well, he had been difficult to break. Now, he was one of the deadliest men in the city, maybe the deadliest man – it was one of her boys, whether that be her husband or her dear friend. “Absolutely not,” he said, his eyes still shut. “But if you want more details, you’ll need to be more specific.”

She considered for a few moments. As she’d thought not two minutes ago, she knew he’d struggled with his mind, over the long, lonely decades, and part of that had been not eating enough, or letting himself enjoy anything. Lately, though, since – well, maybe since that silly war with Klatch, at least – he had been doing better, she had thought. He had certainly seemed happier. She worked with swamp dragons and was married to Samuel Vimes; she could sort of tell when people weren’t happy. “Physically?” she asked.

“Tired,” he said. There was so much vulnerability in one, short word – Havelock was a man proficient in many weapons, but it was words he valued most. So say something so significant so simply, so shortly, without sentences that qualified and paragraphs that coated in armour… he loved her so much, she knew, nearly as much as she loved him. Not in the same way that she and Sam loved each other, of course – everything else quite besides, Havelock was gay as a flock of lambs gambolling on a flower-filled meadow in summer – but there was a strong, true love between them, born first from the mutual isolation of being the ‘weird one’ of their peer group, and then grown thanks to the fact they were both too stubborn to give up on each other, even through the horrible years of Lord Snapcase when he had disappeared for months on end and through her years as a recluse, barricading herself from the world that pointed and laughed at her. He had been working so, so hard, for so, so long.

“Is there something you would rather drink?” she asked, then pre-empted: “You do need to drink _something_ , especially if you’re not up to eating.”

He opened his eyes, and looked at her. She did see pain in them, but he hadn’t not been in pain since the day of her wedding, when Sam had been an hour late and covered in his own and Havelock’s blood. (She had thought it awfully dashing, which neither of them begrudged her; Sam just shook his head in wonder and kissed her, and Havelock said he was glad something good came of that Incident, at least. He said it with a capital ‘I,’ ‘Incident’ not ‘incident’.) The shadows below his eyes, concealed with make-up as always, were deeper than what had become usual. His expression didn’t move in the slightest as he met her gaze with full knowledge of what she’d been looking at, which was the way she liked it. He knew that she understood, so he didn’t have to make the effort and pull on facial expressions – they didn’t come naturally to him, the same way they did other people. “Water,” he said, after a beat, his voice quiet and not so much strained as it was filtered through.

“Alright.” She stood up, not tucking her chair back in, to go and get him a jug of clean water. She didn’t have to walk past him, but she made her way around the table anyway, and brushed a hand against his small shoulder (well, almost all shoulders were small to her). He leaned into it a bit, like a stray cat, so she, carefully and waiting for the slight release of tension that meant consent, stroked his cheek. “I’ll be right back, Havelock. Don’t leave.”

“I will not,” he replied, and she smiled at him, then bustled off.


	4. Carrot I. (Investigating & Attempting)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t a nice feeling, to know that your concern and your trying to be nice were looked at through a lens of fear. Carrot sighed. “If you say so, sir.”

“Ah, Captain Carrot.”

“Good morning, Your Lordship.”

“It is, is it?”

“I believe so.”

“Your unfailing optimism is an encouragement to every resident of this city.”

Carrot, an expert in saying things with no discernible trace of irony, determined after a few moments that he could find no trace, either. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I find that if I believe the best of the world, the world tends to rise and meet it.”

“Something many of us wish they could do, no doubt. Why did you want to talk to me, Captain?”

“I just wanted to check in, sir, and see how everything was going.” Carrot knew that from anyone but him, this would ring entirely false. He, though, had a weapon he did not keep secret – he actually meant it, and he actually cared.

“Indeed?”

“Yes, sir. And because I'm sure you're wondering, Commander Vimes didn't say anything to anybody in the Watch.” He didn’t say Commander Vimes didn’t say anything to anyone, because everybody knew he told everything to Lady Sybil. “It's just that a few days ago Fred Colon asked how you were as a joke, and he went all stern and careful and told him to mind his own business. Everyone thought it was funny, I think I was the only one who picked it up. And, well, I've been watching him after his meetings at the Palace, and he seems worried and thoughtful about something, so I was... I was worried too, sir.”

“There is no need to be worried, Captain.”

There were very few people who weren’t scared of Lord Vetinari, and Carrot was one of them. There were also very few people who _were_ scared of Carrot, outside of maybe disappointing him. Lord Vetinari had been one of those few people, and Carrot realised now that he still was. It wasn’t a nice feeling, to know that your concern and your trying to be nice were looked at through a lens of fear. Carrot sighed. “If you say so, sir.”

He meant to respect the Patrician’s privacy. He really did. He was trying very hard to keep all rowdy bits of narrative and fate and that-which-shall-not-be-named-liness under control. A bit of it must have escaped, though, or Lord Vetinari had presumed it had, because he provided more information.

He smiled a little bit, tipped his head as if he were joking. “Lately, the five flights of stairs to the Office have been … taking a toll. This won’t…” The small smile vanished; he stopped talking to rest his head against his hand for one moment. The hand was tremoring. “The welfare of Ankh-Morpork will not be negatively impacted, Captain Carrot, I assure you.”

‘I believe you,’ he wanted to say. Instead what he replied was “I know. May I sit down, sir?” Vetinari waved with one hand for him to go ahead, so he sat in the ‘visitor’ chair at the Patrician’s desk, the one that faced Vetinari’s. “Ankh-Morpork will be okay,” he said. “I would like you to be okay too. It’s not … like an instruction, sir. It’s just to let you know, I care about you.” The Patrician looked at him, suddenly sharp and discerning. Carrot nodded. “I do,” he said.

Lord Vetinari glanced down at one of his shaking hands, and Carrot properly noticed how drawn and tired the poor man looked, and had to tackle back the want to gently wrap an arm around his shoulder. “Some might say,” he said carefully, and it wasn’t a nice feeling to know that your concern and your trying to be nice were looked at through a lens of fear, “it is the duty of a … Captain … to care about all people.”

“I would agree,” said Carrot, and he did reach out across the desk, which was dangerously possessive of the desk and the Oblong Office and generally what was on it, but he deemed the risk one well worth taking. He took the thin, long, trembling hands in one of his broad and calloused ones, careful to be gentle. The Patrician looked at him, helpless and transfixed. Carrot sighed, and released his hands. “But I also care about you on a personal level. You’ve been good to me, and good to Angua, and good to Mister Vimes and Lady Sybil, and yes, good to Ankh-Morpork. If there’s anything I can do – not that,” he added hastily, before he terrified the man, “but – other things, I would be very glad to.”

The Patrician moved his face into a small smile. Carrot smiled a lot. It looked genuine. “Thank you, Mister Ironfoundersson,” he said.

Carrot smiled back, and stood up, pushing his chair neatly back into the desk. “I won’t let you detain me, sir.”


	5. Rufus II. (Unconcerned about Priotities)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could carry him, if he had to.

After the door closed behind his guest, His Lordship turned around from the window, and, gripping the head of his ebony cane tightly, staggered to his chair. Rufus listened to fear-unsteady footsteps retreat as he watched silent pain-unsteady footsteps approach until His Lordship reached the chair behind his desk and almost collapsed into it. He rested his cane carefully against the desk, then let his head drop backwards and nostrils flare.

Part of what made Rufus excellent at his job was his ability to neatly and automatically translate His Lordship’s idiosyncratic ways of self-expression into what other humans might do or say. Right now, His Lordship was doing the equivalent of gasping for breath. The fact he had staggered and then collapsed did not require a translation; that was a universal action, and thus highly concerning from His Lordship.

Rufus set down the files he was holding, and crouched beside the wooden, straight-backed chair. “My lord,” he said, “you should be resting somewhere softer. Can you make it to bed, if I help you?” His Lordship’s pain-glassy eyes looked down at him, and Rufus recognised the capacity assessment; could Rufus help him make it? Yes, he answered silently, he could. He could carry him, if he had to. Rufus shifted so that he was more in front of the chair than to the side, then stretched both of his arms out. His Lordship slowly reached out in turn and took them. His grip, as usual, was going to leave bruises later, but Rufus didn’t have it in him to mind. Rufus stood, the angle of their arms thus changing, and, after giving them both a moment, pulled him upwards. Almost immediately, His Lordship began to fall again. Rufus pivoted, catching him while not relinquishing either of his arms. His right leg wasn’t able to weight-bear at all, right now; he must have strained it too much when he had walked fairly evenly as he’d gone over to the window to intimidate his guest. Okay. That was okay. They could work with that. Out loud, he made no comment, because he knew His Lordship was ashamed and mortified, and so did not want to think about it any more than was needful.

Silently, Rufus shifted so that one of His Lordship’s arms was around his waist. His Lordship leaned what felt like hardly anything at all, but was actually most of his weight, against Rufus, and Rufus slowly stepped forwards once, paying close attention to His Lordship’s lef foot dragging. It had been doing near double-duty, so to speak, given that his right was currently unusable, and must be near to giving out. Even a year ago, that would have been unthinkable, His Lordship’s stamina nearly unparalleled, but, well… what was it, the way he preferred to have it phrased? He was not in the best of health. Yes, that was it. In the same way, even a year ago, His Lordship would have been able to push through the pain and continue about his duties instead of being debilitated. However, this change was not one that concerned Rufus overmuch, as His Lordship actually resting was a huge improvement. He supposed this mindset of his, placing His Lordship’s welfare above his duties to the city, should be worrying. That was the thing, though. It wasn’t. Somebody had to.

The way he was being both leaned on and clutched at his torso, not just his arm, reminded Rufus vaguely of something, and it took him a moment to work out what it was. It was nonsensical, but – the step right before one swung a person into a piggyback. He would never do that with His Lordship, of course, as it would aggravate his leg, but the mental juxtaposition nevertheless almost made him want to smile.

It took them nearly ten minutes, using a hidden door and a secret passageway, to reach the small, concealed emergency bedroom near the Oblong Office. Rufus closed the second hidden door behind them, then helped His Lordship lower himself onto the narrow, elevated cot.

“I can get someone to bring your cane, or I can do it myself.” He looked at His Lordship’s face. He was clearly horrified by the idea of anybody who did not need to touching an extension of himself. Rufus took that for the instruction that it was, nodding slightly. “I’ll do it myself.”

“I have a meeting at four,” said His Lordship.

“I know, sir,” said Rufus. “I thought that you might want to keep the concerned citizens waiting.”

“Cleverly put,” said His Lordship. On the surface that meant a compliment for Rufus’ planning to further enrage bigots, but barely an inch deep was the compliment for Rufus’ planning for his welfare and passing it off as politics.

Rufus nodded again, wanting to touch His Lordship’s arm again but knowing that would not be appreciated, so of course refraining. It was very important that he felt safe, that he didn’t have to be on his guard against Rufus. “Thank you, sir,” he said. Speaking of that trust, it was that he thanked him for, though on the surface it was about the compliment.


	6. Moist I. (Ignoring & Panicking)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was looking away. He did not see anything out of the ordinary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to @dats_der_bunny for helping me get Moist into character.

Moist took a seat at Vetinari’s desk, one leg hooked over the chair’s side. He looked over at Vetinari, had a horrible flash of double-vision where he saw some kind of emaciated, pallid hallucination instead of the Patrician, and immediately stopped looking. He was looking away. He did not see anything out of the ordinary.

“Mr Lipwig,” said Vetinari, “either enlighten me as to the reason for your gawking, or cease to engage in it.”

He wasn’t gawking at all. He’d been looking away! What was the man talking about? Unless it was that he’d been gawking … by not looking. Thus still drawing attention to his attention. “Who says I was gawking?” he demanded.

“Why, I do. I do hope you do not think me incorrect, Mr Lipwig.”

Moist frowned, tapping his fingers up and down on his leg. He supposed he should look at Vetinari again. To his relief, his mind had definitely exaggerated. Vetinari didn’t look _great_ , but he didn’t look like a corpse either. He was emaciated, and he was pallid, but he was neither as thin nor pale as Moist had first suspected. The deep arcs under his eyes looked like bruises, though. Moist knew that he wore makeup, but for the first time he could see the shadows they were hiding. His cheekbones stood out too much, as well. He decided it wasn’t the best idea to give the Patrician cosmetic advice instead of explaining himself, so he explained himself. “I was _gawking_ , apparently, because you’re not looking quite like yourself.”

“Drumknott, am I not looking like myself?”

“Oh no, my lord, you look perfectly like yourself. I could never mistake you for any other person.”*

*This was, in fact, a lie. For further details, recommended reading is ‘The Truth’, the first of the Industrial Revolution Discworld books.

Moist made a face, then ironed it out into something neutral, not speaking. He wanted to see where this was going. His fingers kept tapping. Soon he would work out a rhythm and bring something else into it; wiggling his feet, maybe.

But then Vetinari sighed in an unmistakably disappointed manner and addressed him again. “Mr Lipwig. People do, in fact, change. I had hitherto been under the impression we had gone over this in detail; I am evidently mistaken.”

Moist’s fingers were going wild, and suddenly, so was his mind, and then his mouth. “Yes, we did, we did, hang on, are you suggesting that you’ve changed as in who you are, and so you are yourself but this is the new yourself? Because if it is I think you wouldn’t be quite well, and I don’t want.” He caught his mouth, then his mind, then his fingers, and he trailed off and coughed awkwardly, looking around the Office.

Vetinari waited patiently for him to run out of steam. “There is no ‘quite’ about it, Mr Lipwig, I am afraid.”

Drumknott was suddenly hovering very close to Vetinari’s shoulder, like the world’s most unintimidating bodyguard or, Moist realised, like a support. Vetinari put his hand up, and Drumknott put a slim folder into it, and Vetinari passed the folder over to Moist. He flipped it open. There was only one piece of paper in it, though it was filled with small and neat handwriting on both sides. It was entitled ‘Health Evaluation’. “What is this?” Moist demanded.

“The page does have a title, Mr Lipwig,” said Vetinari.

“Who is this written by?” asked Moist.

“This was written by a doctor, was it not, Drumknott?” asked Vetinari.

“Oh yes, my lord,” said Drumknott, “by a doctor of medicine and applied pathology.”

“Only those things?” Vetinari asked mildly, and Drumknott straightened his glasses hurriedly, and Moist had the uncomfortable impression he had barely covered laughter. He couldn’t remember Drumknott having done that before. He focused on the thought of mockery, to avoid the far worse thought of what he was meant to be reading. Moist started to read it, then thought of another question, and asked that instead. “This meeting was going to be about this all along, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was,” said Vetinari, as if he were stupid.

Moist lowered his head and read the page. It wasn’t… it wasn’t good. There was a list of things that seemed far too long but was probably accurate, and several other things that seemed far too short. One or two things weren’t there at all. There was no prognosis anywhere. Moist could feel his heart beating. He flipped the paper over again, and reread it. Vetinari watched him with an impassivity that felt sardonic, even if it didn’t look it. Moist was sweating, now, and he wiped his brow with a bright red handkerchief. “There isn’t anything missing from this health report, is there?” he asked.

Vetinari looked at Drumknott. “Drumknott?” he inquired.

“No, my lord,” said Drumknott.

“No,” said Vetinari. Those were very short sentences, to come from Vetinari in a row right when Moist was making a fool of himself. Only one word each, and not even a scolding. Maybe he couldn’t speak more than that, now, and Moist had tired him out –

“Mr Lipwig,” said Vetinari. “Mr Lipwig.” Moist couldn’t feel his hands, that was weird, he didn’t like that sensation. “ _Herr von Lipwig._ _Erwachen_.”

 _Wake up._ Or, more correctly, _Awaken._ The command in his first language filtered into the weightless, timeless, spiraled panic. The voice speaking it, older, deeply timbred, accented of the upper class of Ankh-Morpork, yanked him out, and he sat bolt upright, gasping in air, his eyes widened. “I’m awake!” he said.

Drumknott was by his side now, instead of Vetinari’s. “It’s alright, sir,” he said gently, taking the paper from his hands and folding it back into the file. “Isn’t it, my lord?”

“Indeed it is,” said Vetinari. “I gave you this information, Mr Lipwig, not because anything will change for you, but because you are a curious fellow who enjoys being ‘in the loop,’ so to speak.”

“And you threw the dog a bone?” asked Moist, before his brain kicked in and collided into his rear shouting ‘STUPID’. After his brain had finished kicking him, it also jolted his spine and reminded him that ‘not because anything will change for you’ merely reflected motives; it didn’t rule out that happening. Luckily, that wasn’t for another few minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous Überwaldean provided free of charge. Moist can't sit in a chair properly, he's bisexual.


End file.
